Celeste wasn’t supposed to come back.
That had been the silent agreement. No names. No words. No expectations. But ever since she left that room, her skin hadn’t stopped burning. She could still feel the bruise on her hip. The soreness between her legs. The stretch of him, buried deep inside her, claiming her without permission or apology.
She’d touched herself every night since.
It wasn’t enough.
So she returned.
She wasn’t invited. He hadn’t slipped another key across the table. He hadn’t even looked at her during her shift at Velvet Cellar.
But she knew which room it was. She’d memorized the number. She wore black lace under a trench coat and nothing else. Her heels echoed off the hallway floor. With each step closer to the door, her chest got tighter. Her thighs already wet.
She
